


Spies in Cuba

by HawkeyeRules



Series: Spies AU [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone goes to Cuba!, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hellfire Club, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), Shark Fam, Threats of Violence, everyone is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkeyeRules/pseuds/HawkeyeRules
Summary: Peter Maximoff has been waiting his whole life to meet his father, even going as far as shaping his whole career around finding him. But when they finally meet, will it be the reunion Peter is hoping for?Continuation of the "Spies in Spandex" Universe
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Charles Xavier, Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Peter Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr, Raven | Mystique & Charles Xavier
Series: Spies AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773403
Comments: 21
Kudos: 29





	1. Meet Agent Maximoff

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely fairyScorpicus for letting me use the tag "Shark Fam". Go check out their writing, because they are awesome!

Erik Lehnsherr hadn’t come back, not since the failed attack on the President.

Peter leaned back in his swivel chair and chewed on the end of a Twizzler. It had been 3 months, 1 week, 3 days, 8 hours, 22 minutes, and 3 seconds since the Agency had assigned him to survey a suburban house owned by an alias of known terrorist Erik Lehnsherr. 

It was a boring task and, until three weeks ago, Peter had been positive he was being punished. But then a tan, nondescript car pulled into the driveway and Erik Lehnsherr entered the house, holding a long rifle case.

Peter had leaned forwards and pushed aside the corner of the curtain he was looking through to get a better look. Lehnsherr hadn’t seen him, but Peter kept one hand on his radio just in case. Lehnsherr left early the next morning, startling Peter awake. 

And hadn’t returned.

Peter had gotten permission from the local police force to search the house, even though he had to show his badge to seven different people. 

Once inside the house, he had found nothing. Not even a can of beans in the cupboard. Peter had even pulled up floorboards and checked the walls for any hollow spots. 

That had been three weeks and one day ago. Now, Peter was being called back to the Agency. Turns out they had caught Lehnsherr, or something like that, and he was to return.

And I wasn’t even needed, he thought. 

Peter grumbled under his breath as he packed up his surveillance equipment and food, and opened the door to his garage. As he started the car, he felt a hollow place growing in his chest. 

He desperately wanted to catch Erik Lehnsherr, and not just for the fame. He wanted to ask—no, demand—why he had left. Peter’s mom had told him as much as she could about who his father was, but she had failed to mention he was a terrorist. But Peter wasn’t sure she knew that much. As far as he could tell, he existed because his father had an undercover mission that involved his getting close to a civilian waitress.

Peter accelerated onto the freeway with a little more force than necessary, cutting off a delivery truck as he did so. The driver shouted something out his window, but Peter ignored him, turning up his music and settling in for the long drive back to D.C.


	2. Mission Ready

Once at the Agency, Peter ran through the polished halls until he skidded to a squeaky stop in front of a polished, wood door. Even with his reckless driving, he was still half-an-hour late to the meeting the Director was holding.

With a deep breath, he combed back his hair and pushed the door open. 

Instantly, five pairs of eyes turned to face him.

“Agent Maximoff,” the Director said drily. “Glad you could finally join us.”

Scott snorted and Peter made sure to kick him under the table when he sat down.

“Perhaps, Charles,” the Director said. “you would care to catch Agent Maximoff up on what we were just discussing?”

Peter turned his attention to the man sitting on the Director’s left. Charles Xavier had always commanded his respect, even when Peter first started at the Agency, and he paid close attention when he started to speak.

“A potential terrorist attack has been brought to our attention,” Charles said. 

“A terrorist attack?” Peter laughed, forgetting his awe for a moment. “Isn’t that a job for the Army?” When he realized no one else was laughing, he adjusted himself in his chair and coughed. “Never mind.”

“We have reason to believe this attack will be carried out by the Hellfire Club.” Charles must’ve seen the confused gazes around the room, because he elaborated with, “The Hellfire Club is a select group dedicated to removing the earth of those they deem unfit to live.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, secretly thankful it wasn’t his father orchestrating the attack. 

“Thank you, Agent Xavier.” The Director turned to face Peter, Scott, and Jean, who Peter just noticed was sitting on the other side of Scott. 

He mentally kicked himself. Some spy he was! Any other spy would’ve noticed her right away. Of course, her flaming hair was pretty obvious, which didn’t help Peter’s disappointment at all.

“You three are going to go with Agents Xavier and Darkholme to track down the Hellfire Club and stop them before they can carry out their threat. We knock they are basing their operations out of a resort in Cuba. We have acquired four tickets to a gala the Hellfire Club is throwing at their resort. Agent Maximoff, you will be in charge of infiltrating the inner circle. Get access to their weaponry. The rest of you will be backup and support.”

“Why Maximoff?” Scott challenged.

“Because I’m awesome,” Peter responded, forcing confidence he didn’t feel into his voice. Scott’s question had echoed the thought running through his own head.

Why him?

The Director stared at Scott long enough to make him uncomfortable. Peter suppressed a grin at the sight of Scott trying not to squirm in his seat.

“The Agency has chosen Agent Maximoff,” the Director finally said. “and that is all you need to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Director smiled. “Now, you better get moving if you don’t want to miss your flight.”

Peter stifled a groan. He had a feeling they weren’t going to be using the Agency’s private jet for this mission.


	3. Asking About the Past is Hard

Peter stood in line behind Scott, trying not to breathe too deeply. If he had to smell Scott’s cheap cologne the whole plane ride, Scott wouldn’t be making it to Cuba. 

Behind him, Charles and Raven were talking to each other in low tones. Peter desperately tried to hear what they were saying, but they were too quiet. He eventually gave up and went back to studying people in line.

They had their passports checked and got through security. Then they waited for three hours in the terminal because the plane was delayed due to a storm.

Peter sighed and fanned his face with a brochure, then glanced around. 

Scott and Jean were bent over a notebook Jean had, their heads close together. Peter gagged and looked away. Raven was sitting with her legs crossed, calmly reading a novel. Charles was the only one unoccupied, and the only one Peter wanted to talk to.

“Hey,” he said, scooting into the seat next to Charles.

“Yes, Peter?”

“I had a question I wanted to ask you.” 

“Alright.” Charles turned to fully face him. “What’s your question?”

“You knew Erik Lehnsherr, right?”

Charles’ eyes filled with pain, but there was some joy there, too. “Of course I did. He was part of my team for a long time and was a good friend.”

“What’s he like?”

Charles frowned. “Erik is an amazing fighter. All the sniper and long-range records at the Agency were set by him, and the only person to beat his combat records is Raven. He is the best in his field and he knew it.”

Peter sunk in his seat. All he was hearing was his father was a killer, and a good one at that. 

“Why do you ask?” 

Peter paused, debating whether or not he should tell Charles the secret he had carried with him from the day he graduated high school. It was something he had never told anyone before, and he was afraid, afraid of what Charles might think of him after that. 

“No reason,” Peter finally said. “Just wanted to know a bit more about the guy I spent over three months waiting for.”

Actually, it’s been over twenty-two years.

Peter remembered the first time he had asked his mother about who his dad was. It had been after his school’s Father Son camping trip. Peter hadn’t been able to go, and at ten years old, that was detrimental to his social standing. He had come home and begged his mother to find his father so they could go together.

He still remembered the smell of her lilac shampoo when she pulled him close and explained that his father was gone, that he wasn’t coming back. 

“Peter?”

He shook his head. Charles was staring down at him, a slight frown on his face.

“It’s time to go.”

“Oh. Right.” Peter leapt to his feet and followed the rest out to the airplane.


	4. Don't Kill the Chicken!

To Peter’s complete horror and dismay, he was seated with Scott and Jean. More specifically, between them. 

When the plane lifted off and the seatbelt light turned off, Scott turned to Peter and asked, “Could we switch?”

“Please, yes.”

Now Peter had the aisle seat and he was able to stretch his legs a bit more. He tipped his baseball cap low over his eyes and ran through the list of etiquette he was going to have to remember, quizzing himself on random facts. 

It took them longer to get through the customs at Cuba than back in the States, but get through it they did. 

“Whew,” Peter exhaled the second they stepped outside. 

The humidity was stifling and all the young agents were instantly sweating. Peter briefly wondered how Charles wasn’t dying in his long pants and jacket before they were swarmed by taxi drivers asking if they needed a ride.

Charles finally picked one man who had a large van and they piled onto the moldy seats.

“Where are you going?” the man asked in perfect English. 

“The Hotel de Playa,” Charles replied. 

The man raised an eyebrow and stopped talking to them after that. Peter blushed a little and tried to sink into the old seat, for some reason wanting to explain that they weren’t actually rich, they were just pretending. 

He quickly sat back up when a spring stabbed into his back. 

The driver gunned the engine and they sped off through winding streets. Peter grabbed the sides of his seat in terror as they almost ran down several pedestrians and a chicken. With every pothole they hit, Peter could feel his body rise off the seat several inches. After the fifth time that happened, he became convinced that the driver was hitting the potholes on purpose. He spared a glance at the others, wondering if they felt the same way he did.

Charles was white-faced and clutching his suitcase. Raven rode each bump with ease, while Scott and Jean clutched each other for dear life. Peter smiled, and faced the front just in time to see a building loom in front of them. 

He clenched his eyes shut and waited for the jar of impact. Instead, the air filled with the sound of burning rubber and squealing brakes. The car ground to a halt and there was a large exhaling of breath from everyone. 

Peter slowly opened his eyes. They weren’t dead! With a sigh of relief, he slid out of the van and onto solid ground. A large shadow from the building provided cool relief from the heat. 

“Here you are,” the man said. “Safe and sound.”


	5. Meetings at Night

The hotel was nice, nicer than anywhere Peter had stayed in his entire life. The rooms were large, with gold accents everywhere and thick carpet. 

Peter, Scott, and Charles all were in one room, while the girls had the room across the hall. After they were all settled in, they met in the lobby and went out into the humidity.

“Follow me,” Charles said. 

They followed him into the maze of winding streets until they emerged at the waterfront. A large, white mansion loomed in front of them. Its roof was terracotta and the walls were whitewashed. A large iron gate blocked the entire driveway, and there were cameras in every corner.

“Wow,” Peter breathed. “I’m glad we don’t have to break into there. That would be a nightmare.” 

They didn’t linger for risk of being spotted and hurried back to the hotel. 

“Now what?” Peter asked, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He started unwrapping a Twinkie.

“We wait till the party. There are some preparations I expect you two to go through before we leave.”

Peter nodded, taking a bite of the Twinkie. 

“Those aren’t good for you,” Scott said.

“Broccoli isn’t good for you, either,” Peter shot back.

“Broccoli is one of the best things for you.”

“So is spinach!”

“Are you saying you eat spinach?”

“Maybe I do!”

“Agents.” Charles’ voice held a warning note. “That’s enough.”

Peter finished his Twinkie and lay down, his arms behind his head. Just as he was drifting to sleep, he heard Charles stand up and walk towards the door. Normally, Peter wouldn’t care, but he could hear in Charles’ steps that he was trying to stay quiet.

He had something to hide. 

Peter waited until the door shut behind Charles before standing up and slipping down the hallway after him. 

Charles walked out into the night and Peter only hesitated for a moment. The night was dark and many things could go wrong and people could go missing, but Charles was up to something and he needed to find out what that was.

Loud laughter filled the air, followed by the sound of meat sizzling. Peter swallowed hard, praying his stomach would stay quiet, as he followed Charles into a busy sector. People were dancing and laughing and talking, no one caring it was late at night. Peter slipped easily through the crowds, wishing now he had at least thought to bring his knife.

Agent Scott “Perfection” Summers probably wouldn’t’ve forgotten his knife. Or a gun. 

Charles entered a bar and Peter stopped outside, instantly forgetting his anger. 

Charles was talking to someone whose profile he recognized right away from months of waiting for him to show up. 

Erik Lehnsherr.

Peter realized he was just standing the door to the bar, perfectly backlit by a fire behind him. Cursing his clumsiness, he slipped inside and sat at a table hidden by a fern-like plant. 

A waitress approached him and he ordered a water. When she left, he pushed aside a frond and watched his father and Charles sit down. They appeared to be arguing about something, but he was too far away to hear what they were saying.

The waitress set down a glass of water and Peter sipped at it, watching the two men talk as he did so. Both of them were stiff and uncomfortable, telling him the argument was still going on. At one point, his father gripped the edge of the table, but Charles must’ve said something to calm him, because he relaxed a moment after.

Just as Peter was starting to doze off, they stood, and started walking for the door.

Adrenaline surged through Peter’s body and he cursed under his breath, regretting not bringing anything to disguise himself with. Several months ago, he had made a regrettable decision to dye his hair a reflective silver, a decision that had led to backlash from the Agency. But they let him keep his hair that color, but only until it wore out. Then he was going back to brown.

Charles and Erik stopped at the door and Peter sank in his chair, but neither of them had seen him. 

Yet.

The only positive thing was he could now hear them. 

“The Agency won’t be happy.” That was Erik. His voice was low and nothing what Peter imagined him to sound like. He was expecting some villainous voice; scratchy, deep, maybe a hint of coughing or crazy laughter. 

His father’s voice was deep, but it sounded more like a respectable gentleman from somewhere in Europe than a villain, carrying an undertone of an accent Peter didn’t recognize. 

“I don’t fear the Agency’s wrath,” Charles responded. 

“You know I can’t help you, Charles. That was part of our deal.”

Deal? Peter frowned. What deal?

“I’m not asking for your help, just protection.”

Erik barked out a laugh and opened the door, both of them leaving into the night.

Peter slipped out the door behind them, but instead of following them, he headed back towards the hotel. The night’s escapades would do him no good if Charles beat him to the hotel. 

The streets were empty now and Peter made good time. When he reached the hotel, he bounded up the stairs and slowly opened the door to his room. 

Scott sat up instantly when he entered, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. 

“Where were you?” he hissed. 

“Out,” Peter responded, jumping onto his bed.

“Out doing what?” 

“Haven’t you noticed Charles is missing?” Peter snapped, pulling back the blankets.

“I have.” Scott sounded offended, but Peter didn’t care. “I assumed he has a good reason that he will tell us about in the morning.”

There was no way Peter was going to tell Scott what Charles was really doing, so instead he lay down with his back to Scott and tried to get some sleep.


	6. I'm a little lost

The next morning, Charles had Peter and Scott disassemble and clean their guns. Peter did it from memory, his mind miles away in a small bar. 

The conversation between his father and Charles kept running through his mind, bringing new questions with it both times. Why was his father in Cuba? Why was he free? What deal were they talking about?

Finally, he gave up and devoted all his attention to the gun. There were more questions than answers, and he had no way of getting any answers.

Or did he?

“Charles,” Peter said the second his gun was clean. “since I’m the one heading this mission, I would like to walk around the town a bit; you know, familiarize myself with the streets and stuff?”

Charles looked up at him from his own gun. “I don’t see a problem with that, Peter. Just remember to bring your gun.”

“And knife,” Peter added, thinking of the night before.

Charles nodded. “Be back before the party.”

“Course.”

Peter stood and grabbed his gun, then walked out into the heat.  
\------------------------

Peter walked through the streets, thankful for the baseball cap that shaded his face. The last thing he wanted from this trip was a sunburn. Nice tan? That was different. 

The familiar weight of his gun hanging from his hip and knife in his sheath gave him more confidence in his step. He walked with long, purposeful strides, unaware his gait coped that of his father’s.

When he reached the bar where Charles and his father had talked, he took a deep breath and entered.

The bar was mostly empty this time of morning. The bartender stood at the bar, cleaning glasses with a rag. The waitress that had served Peter was wiping down a table, her pretty face scrunched in concentration.

“Hola,” Peter said.

“I speak English,” the bartender said with a weary sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Peter walked up to him and leaned against the counter. “I’m looking for a man who came here last night. Tall, European, wearing a long coat.”

The bartender’s eyes hardened. “Look, man, we don’t allow trouble in here and we don’t go looking for it. If you have a problem with him, take it somewhere else.”

“And I will. I just need to know where else to take it.”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know who he is. I have never seen him before.”

As he spoke those words, his eyes darted to the waitress. It was a small motion, but Peter caught it instantly. 

“Okay.” He left the counter and approached the waitress.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” Peter smiled. “I’m sure you heard us—”

“Yes,” she smiled coyly. “I know this man you speak of. I’ll tell you, for a price.”

“I don’t have any money,” Peter fumbled.

“Different price.”

“Rosa!” the bartender shouted. “Leave him alone and go back to your job!”

“Wait,” Peter said, reaching out and grabbing her arm. “Where is he?”

“He rents a room in the hotel down the block. Number 27.”

“How did you—”

“I get good business at that hotel.”

Peter let go of her arm and hurried into the warm sunlight. He took several deep breaths before taking off down the street, realizing too late he forgot to ask her which direction.


	7. Hey, Dad! I'm home!

Ten minutes and one wrong turn later, Peter found the hotel. It was nicer than Rosa’s statements led him to believe and he scouted out the building before entering. 

There was only one room he would use if he was renting a hotel. It backed up to the building at the back of the hotel and the fire escape ended a floor below it. There was only one way in and out of that room. Also, it faced the street and offered a good view of anyone standing there, including Peter, he realized.

Quickly, he racked his mind for an alibi if his father asked any questions. Art student studying architecture was what he decided on. 

With no plan and an on-the-fly story, Peter entered the hotel and walked up to the desk.

“Hey,” he said. “Has anyone rented Room 27 yet?”

The clerk, who didn’t look much older than him, turned a weary gaze his direction.

“I’m not allowed to give out personal information,” he droned.

“It’s not personal,” Peter laughed. “You see, he’s my father and I haven’t seen him in about five years and we were going to meet here for a reunion of sorts—go fishing and the like—but he didn’t tell me when he was arriving, so I just kinda guessed.

“Is he there?”

The clerk rolled his eyes, but nodded.

“Great,” Peter said. “I’ll just go on up.”

“You can’t,” the clerk said after him, but he didn’t make a move to stop Peter.

He raced up the stairs and down several hallways covered with threadbare carpet. When he reached he reached the room in the corner, he paused, took several seconds to catch his breath, pulled out his gun, and prepared to kick the door down.

The second his foot reached the door, it swung open. Peter let out a cry of alarm and fell on his face. 

The carpet pressing against his face was rough and smell liberally of cigarette smoke. Peter gagged and gathered his hands under him, propelling himself to his feet.

“That was certainly an entrance.”

Peter spun around, gun in hand, fear coiling in his throat. His father didn’t know who he was! What if he decided to kill him right here and now?

His father was leaning against the door, arms crossed, face devoid of emotion.

“You followed me.” It wasn’t a question.

Peter nodded, still holding out the gun.

“Put it down,” his father ordered. “I’m not going to kill you. I just want to know simply who you are and why you followed me.”

Peter lowered the gun a fraction, but he didn’t put it in its holster.

“My name is Agent Maximoff,” Peter said. “I work for—”

“The Agency.” A hint of a smile showed on his father’s face. “You followed Charles, which means you know him and know where he came from.”

“Or I’m a third player and I just simply followed this Charles guy.”

“I don’t think so. The alphabet in D.C. doesn’t know I exist. They think I’m either dead or permanently MIA. Therefore, a third party is highly improbable.”

His father stepped past him and into a small kitchen. “Drink?”

Peter shook his head, suddenly angry. 

“Why are you talking with Charles?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?” And do you know who I am?

“I’m staying here,” Erik replied. “As to why I was talking with Charles, that is none of your business.”

“Really?” Peter snarled, stepping closer. “And why would something that’s oh-so-not-important attract the Agency’s attention?”

Erik’s head snapped up and Peter instantly regretted walking closer. For a moment his father’s face was all lines and angles, a cold light shining in his eyes.

“How do you know about that?” he demanded.

“I heard you talking,” Peter said, but his voice had lost its anger. 

Erik barked out a laugh. “Charles wondered. Guess he’s losing his edge.”

Peter watched as his father sat at a coffee table, looking completely at ease. And why shouldn’t he be? Peter thought. This was his turf, and we’re playing by his rules. 

He realized he didn’t have enough leverage to go against his father, not now.

“I’ll be back,” Peter snapped, heading for the door. 

“Simply knock next time,” Erik called after him.

Peter shut the door and leaned against it, angrily swiping at the tears that formed in his eyes. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go. He wanted to bring in his father, make him pay for all his crimes, at the very least tell him he had a son. 

A son.

Would he even care?

That thought startled Peter and he stood, clenching his jaw. If his father didn’t care about family, then why should Peter care about him?

He stalked out into the warm heat and cheery sunshine, red-hot anger hiding pain deep inside.


	8. Into the Lion's Den

Grandiose was the only word that came to Peter’s mind when they entered the mansion. Everything was larger and more expensive than anything had a right to be.

He straightened his suit and wandered into the crowd, snatching a drink from a passing waiter. On his left, Scott and Jean talked to an old couple. Peter snorted quietly when he saw the look of boredom on Scott’s face. 

Charles had wandered off somewhere with Raven, but Peter wasn’t going to track them down. He had his mission.

“Hello, handsome.”

A blonde woman walked towards him, her diamond jewelry sparkling in the chandelier’s light. Peter tried not to stare at her in her low-cut dress, but it was sort of impossible.

“Evening,” he replied, touching one of his cufflinks. The touch activated a recording device and sent out the conversation to the rest of the team.

“I don’t think we’ve meet before,” she said.

“Peter Maximoff.”

She smiled. “Emma. Emma Frost.”

“This is nice and all,” Peter said, gesturing to the room. “but when is the real fun going to start?”

“Mr. Maximoff,” Emma twittered. “I had no idea you were such a philanthropist.”

Peter laughed too. “Well, I do like a good cause.”

“Come,” Emma said, linking her arm through his. “I must take you to meet the rest of the donors. They will simply love a man like you!”

Peter allowed himself to be led along. Charles met his gaze from across the room and gave a subtle nod. This was exactly what Peter was supposed to be doing. 

Emma brought him to a group of men and women, each matching the descriptions of the Hellfire Club. Peter managed to keep a smile on his face as he realized he was standing in the inner circle of one of the most dangerous groups of people on the planet.

“And this is Sebastian Shaw,” Emma said, finishing the introductions.

Peter shook his hand, meeting his slate-grey eyes. Shaw’s grip was firm and he stared back at Peter, as if he was memorizing every inch of his face.

“Pleasure,” was all he said. 

“Mr. Maximoff is willing to donate a good chunk of money,” Emma informed the group.

“Actually,” Peter said, carefully removing her arm from his and straightening his jacket. “I’m interested in more than just charities and speeches.”

The glances around the circle told him he was hitting close to home.

“I work for a very select group of people who would are very interested in the extra work you do. I was sent to see if you live up to your reputation.”

“Of course we will,” Emma snapped, her voice hard.

“Emma,” Shaw warned. 

Peter looked between the two of them, waiting for an answer. Things could either go really bad or really good. He forced himself to stay calm and at ease. 

“Not now,” Shaw said, his voice lowered. “Later, when everything else is finished.”

Peter bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll see you later then.”

He walked off before the rest of them could say anything, melting into the crowd. The speeches were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock, leaving him with plenty of time to think of his next move. 

Peter met up with Scott and Jean at the dessert table. Both of them looked like they belonged there and Scott was even laughing about something one of the other people had said.

They stayed together until the speeches started, then found a seat at the same table where Charles and Raven were sitting. The speeches lasted for two hours, each saying the same thing. By the time the fourth politician was up there, promising to save everyone, Peter had counted the number of people in the room. Twice. 

“Alright,” Charles said quietly when the speeches were over. “Scott, Jean, you two stay here. Keep the exits clear and wait for us. Peter, you know what to do. However, I need you to get Shaw outside or into an open area.”

“That’s really specific, but okay.”

“Trust me, Peter.”

Peter stood and strode towards the Hellfire Club. Right before he reached them, his mind caught up with what Charles had asked him, and fitted it with Charles’ earlier discussions with Erik.

They had a sniper. Erik. He was here. He had to be. 

Peter glanced around the room, but couldn’t spot anywhere for a sniper to shoot from. The Club had designed the room well, he had to admit. No alcoves, no balconies, nothing for a gunman to hide behind. 

“Mr. Maximoff, I wondered if you were coming.”

Peter snapped his attention back to the present. Shaw was staring at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” Peter said. “Kinda got carried away observing your decorations.”

“You study art?” Shaw asked as they joined a small group of people near the back of the room.

Peter shook his head. “No, but my boss is always on the lookout for better pieces to decorate his houses.”

“Your boss seems like an interesting man. I would like to meet him some day.”

All Peter did was smile.

The group was led into an elevator. Peter’s heart stopped a little when he realized they weren’t going up, but down. 

He tapped his fingers on his leg to the rhythm of Sweet Dreams Are Made of These. 

“Sorry,” he apologized when he noticed Shaw watching him. “Didn’t realize I was doing that.”

He was fully aware of the glances being exchanged around him. Everyone else in the elevator was older than him by ten or more years and they obviously didn’t think he should even be there. 

Well, I’ll show them, Peter thought.

The elevator stopped at a carefully pressurized level and Shaw led them into a large, warehouse-like room. Every spare inch of the room was covered in boxes and crates, all full of deadly weaponry. 

“Now,” Emma said. “Bidding will begin after everyone has seen everything. Please, don’t be afraid to ask questions. We want you to feel perfectly comfortable with our services.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, thoroughly disturbed by her words. It was as if this was nothing more than a fun field trip to these people!

The people you’re supposed to be mimicking, his brain reminded him.

Right. For the greater good. 

Peter took a deep breath and entered farther into the building.


	9. Stop Pointing Guns at Each Other! Oh, yeah, and there's kidnapping

The bomb was the biggest Peter had ever seen, even bigger than the one in Toronto. He stared at it in terror, imagining the destruction it could cause if detonated.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Emma asked from behind him.

“If you’re into that kinda thing,” Peter responded.

“You’re not, Mr. Maximoff?” 

“I prefer something subtler.”

Emma smiled. “Ah, a man of art.”

“Just someone who likes to feel connected to the job.”

“You don’t get many of those people anymore,” Shaw said, joining the conversation. “Now, everyone just wants a quick and easy trigger.”

“I know,” Peter sighed, shocking himself with what he said next. “The days of true talent in this field are over. Anyone with a scope and a gun thinks themselves humanity’s new savior.” 

“Well said,” Shaw smiled. “How does your current employer treat you?”

“As well as anyone in this business. Why?” 

Shaw exchanged a glance with Emma. “We were planning on offering a job if you were looking elsewhere.”

Peter froze, his mouth open. “Offering me a job?”

“You clearly have the talent and skill we’re looking for. Someone with your talents would be very valuable to our group.”

“I’m honored,” Peter finally said. “But I’m afraid I can’t quite accept your offer as of now.”

Shaw nodded. “I understand. Perhaps seeing our masterpiece will change your mind?”

As Peter followed Shaw to the bomb, he noticed they left the safety of the overhang.

“Peter,” came Charles’ calm voice in his ear. “Get down.”

Peter dropped to the ground. Glass shattered, people screamed, and someone stepped on his hand.

Peter gritted his teeth and crept backwards until he was hidden behind a crate. Safely hidden, he felt confident enough to peek his head over the top.

People were screaming and at least two bodies lay still on the ground. The sniper was still firing, but Peter could see it was useless. All the people were hidden from sight. 

But the sniper seemed to know that, because Peter realized he was herding all the people together, pushing them back from the bomb. A door on the far side of the room burst open and Charles burst through, followed closely by Raven, both with drawn guns. 

“Federal agents!” Charles shouted. “Everyone stay where you are!”

Peter released a sigh. Now that the mission was over, he was suddenly aware of the tension in his body. It was a nice feeling to have someone else in charge of the mission, and he was fully ready to go home.

The cold barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his head and an arm wrapped itself around his neck. Peter gasped for air, grabbing at the arm. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Shaw hissed in his ear.

Peter froze as the gun cocked. He could clearly imagine the bullet, primed and ready to fire, the mechanism that would send it hurling into his skull at 1,500 feet per second, the flash of pain he would feel before he died. 

“Good,” Shaw said. “I see you already know how this can go. However, I don’t wish for things to be . . . unpleasant. Just do what I say and things won’t have to be.”

Peter barely nodded, making some sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat. 

Shaw prodded Peter forwards, keeping firm pressure on his throat as they went. 

“Stand down!” Shaw demanded. “And call off Lehnsherr!”

Lehnsherr? What? Peter’s mind struggled to make sense of what Shaw had just said. How did this psycho know his father? 

“How do you know Erik?” Charles demanded, asking the same question Peter wanted to.

“I trained him,” Shaw responded. “I know his work when I see it.”

Peter frowned, fighting the feeling of fear in his stomach. If Charles did what Shaw wanted him to, then they wouldn’t have any backup if things went south. It would just be Charles, Raven, and him, who was already in trouble. 

The barrel of the gun dug painfully into the back of Peter’s head. He needed to do something to help them. As slowly as he dared, he reached for his right sleeve, where a knife was hidden.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Shaw snarled, tightening his arm around Peter’s neck.

Peter froze, his fingers just inches from the knife.

“That’s better.”

“Alright, Erik’s gone!” Charles called. “Now what do you want?”

“Nothing more than my freedom.”

“You know we can’t do that.”

“The fact I have the upper hand tells me differently.”

Peter struggled against Shaw’s arm, trying to get free. 

“As fun as this has been,” Shaw said. “I’m leaving. Don’t try and stop me.”

The last thing Peter saw before being pulled into the night air was Charles frantically shouting into his cuff.


	10. People are Getting Shot Here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . here we come to one of my favorite chapters. Peter angst and pain! Yay!

Shaw shoved Peter into a car and climbed in, his hand still on his gun.

Peter clenched his hands into fists, readying himself. He only had one shot at this.

He launched himself at Shaw, reaching for the gun. Sharp pain cracked across his forehead and Peter fell back, hand flying to his forehead. It came away bloody and his vision blurred. 

A gunshot echoed in the enclosed space and Peter screamed, clutching his leg as white-hot shards of pain shot through it.

“Now you shouldn’t be any trouble,” Shaw said, but his voice was distant, hidden by a haze of pain. 

Peter gritted his teeth and blinked away the tears and blood obscuring his vision. This was not how the mission was supposed to go.

He tried to ignore the fear in his stomach. He was a spy, he had been trained for things like this. But he had never experienced this before, and he was quickly realizing that this was out of his hands now. There was nothing he could do.

Peter slipped in and out of consciousness, faintly aware of the pain and Shaw’s muttering to himself, which, under any circumstances, would’ve cracked him up. Everything was muted and distant and Peter wondered if this was what it felt like to be dying.

A loud crack startled him back to reality. New pain sliced through the fog in his mind, bringing with it more agony. 

Peter’s eyes shot open and he registered two things. the first was the two bullet holes in the windshield. The second was flaring pain in his shoulder. He slowly moved his head and found a large red stain spreading from a bullet hole in his shoulder.

Peter groaned and rested his head against the seat. Flashing lights and sirens seemed to surround him in a swirl of lights and sound, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be left alone. 

“Peter?” 

Someone was calling his name, but he didn’t want to answer. He just wanted to sleep, to escape the pain.

“Peter, wake up!”

Just give me five more minutes, Peter wanted to say, but the darkness was more comforting and he gave in to its embrace.


	11. Sweet Dreams Are Made of . . . Confusion?

Bright lights.

Voices.

Someone was shouting, shouting, shouting. Peter wanted to tell them to be quiet. Their voices hurt his head.

Masks floated above him, light reflecting off bright metal. 

Charles was there. He was crying, but he looked angry.

Someone responded.

Dad? 

Erik was crying. 

Charles was gone.

Everything hurt. Why didn’t they make it stop?

Muted shouting. Something beeped. Peter hated the beeping. It reminded him of a hospital.

Wasn’t death supposed to be peaceful?

If he was dead, that meant Charles and his father were too. 

Peter hoped he wasn’t dead. 

Man, everything hurt.

Everything felt better. 

Wasn’t he shot? Twice? Four times? Not at all?

Peter tried to frown, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He was asleep, not shot, not dead. This was all a weird dream. 

And the darkness came for him again.


	12. Some Important Things Are Talked About

Peter awoke to someone clutching his hand like a lifeline.

He hated having his hands held. 

With a moan, he tried to pull his hand away. There was a quickly stifled gasp and Peter struggled to open his eyes.

“Man,” he groaned. “What juice do they have me on? I feel like I weigh a million pounds.”

When he finally cracked his eyes, he was surprised to see his father sitting next to him, tears in his eyes.

“Hello, Peter,” Erik said.

“Hi,” Peter replied, suddenly wary. 

He had a memory of his father and Charles arguing, but wasn’t sure if it was real or all the drugs talking. Either way, his father was here, to see him, and that could only mean one thing.

“Do you know who I am?” Peter demanded. Or tried to. His voice wasn’t working that great at the moment.

Erik lowered his gaze, but nodded.

Peter didn’t even have the strength to be angry. He just waved a hand. “Well, you woulda found out one way or another. Guess learning I was shot and here in wherever we are is one way of finding out.” 

Erik opened his mouth to say something, but Peter continued. 

“I was shot, right? That wasn’t just some weird dream? I’m positive I was shot. The stiffness in my shoulder and my immobile leg tells me I was.”

“You were.”

“Okay.” Peter lay his head back and shut his eyes. “So, what happened to Shaw?”

“I shot him.”

“You shot him.” Peter closed his eyes, but a memory shot to his mind and he sat up. “Wait, you shot him? Then who shot me?”

Erik released Peter’s hand and covered his face. Peter watched in embarrassment and confusion as his father’s shoulders started to shake. 

“You shot me.” When the words left his mouth, Peter knew he was right. “You thought I was Shaw?”

His father barely nodded. 

“Then why am I not dead?”

“Charles told me not to kill Shaw,” Erik said softly. “That’s the only reason you’re alive right now. I am so sorry, Peter. If I knew you were in there, I would’ve never taken the shot.”

Peter stared at his father, trying to comprehend everything he had just said. His father shot him. His father knew who he was. Shaw was dead (that wasn’t that important, but Peter had to add it to his list). He had been shot, twice.

“This has been a crazy twenty-four hours,” he finally said. “Can I get some sleep?”

Erik nodded and slowly stood, reluctant to let go of Peter’s hand. Peter closed his eyes, hoping his father would get the hint and leave.

He started to sort through everything he had just learned, but exhaustion quickly took over. His last thought before sleep was, I wonder what food they have here?


	13. Endings and New Beginnings

The next time Peter woke, Charles was sitting next to him, reading a file.

“Morning,” he said, a smile on his face.

“Morning,” Peter said. “Can I have coffee?”

Charles frowned. “I’m not sure.”

“Please, please, please? I haven’t had coffee in days and I need something to chase these drugs away.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Peter. Those drugs are all painkillers. You almost died.”

“I . . . almost . . . died?” 

Charles grimaced. “Erik didn’t tell you?”

“I think I would remember my father telling me I almost died!” Peter stared at Charles, watching every twitch of his face. “And how did Erik learn who I am?”

Charles looked directly at Peter and without hesitation, said, “I told him.”

“Why?”

“It was the right thing to do, Peter. Erik deserved to know.”

“Deserved to know the kid who was bleeding out in front of him was his son who he shot?!”

Charles gave a weary laugh. “You know, Erik said those exact words to me. I believe it was the right decision to make, Peter. It would’ve been worse if Erik hadn’t known.” 

The door opened and Peter turned his head, wanting to escape the conversation. He didn’t want to admit that Charles was right, even though, deep down, he knew he was.

Erik walked in, a newspaper tucked under one arm. He pointedly ignored Charles, but nodded at Peter.

“Good morning.”

“Hey.”

“I should leave,” Charles said, getting to his feet and slipping past Erik. 

“How’s the big outside world?” Peter asked, forcing some excitement into his voice.

“Fine,” Erik replied. “How are you?”

Peter gestured to his leg with his good arm. “A little tied up.”

A faint smile tugged on the corners of Erik’s mouth. He handed Peter the newspaper. 

“Thought you might want something to keep you occupied.”

“Thanks.” Peter took it and left it on his lap. “You didn’t happen to bring my phone, did you?”

Erik smiled. “Next time. You still need to rest.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know.” Peter paused for a moment, then said, “I don’t hold it against you.”

Erik looked at him, surprise on his face. 

“Well, I mean, you did shoot me and that stinks and I’m gonna be out of a job for a long while, but you didn’t know and I didn’t know and so it’s kinda stupid to hold it against you. Also, we actually got to meet and the secret’s out, no thanks to Charles, so maybe this is a good time to catch up with each other, because I know nothing about you other than you’re talented in killing people. I’d like to know my dad more as a person, not just a name in a file.”

Peter abruptly clamped his mouth shut, afraid to open it. He had already said way more than he meant to and didn’t want to ruin anything. 

Erik was quiet for a several moments and Peter tapped his fingers in a nervous rhythm, scared of what his father was thinking. 

“Thank you,” Erik finally said. “I am truly sorry. I pride myself on what I can do and how well I do it. I never thought about what might happen if I made a mistake.”

The hospital lights glinted off something gold in Erik’s hands that he turned over and over as he talked. It looked like a small six-pointed star and Peter could tell it was old and worn. 

“And if you are willing to give me a chance,” Erik continued. “I wouldn’t let you down.”

Peter smiled. “Yeah. I kinda figured. So, what do we do first? I was thinking maybe go to an arcade near my house? I know we’re both kinda old for that, but it’s still fun and the pizza’s amazing and I love their pinball games.”

“First, you have to recover,” Erik said. 

“Oh. Right.”

“But I’m sure you can find things to do while you do that?”

“Okay.” Peter nodded. “That’s sounds great.”  
\---------------------

Several more weeks dragged by. The only bright spot was when Erik would visit, usually with some candy and a board game. Peter had never played more board games in his life, and was surprised to learn he really enjoyed them. 

The weeks turned into months and Peter started physical therapy. Every week, Erik would drive him there and back. Sometimes they would talk, but other times there was nothing to say and they would sit in silence. It was hard and there were many days when Peter lay crying on his bed, certain he would never properly walk again. 

The only thing that cheered him up was talking with his father. Peter quickly learned Erik was nothing like what he imagined him to be, but he was okay with that. They were learning together what it meant to be a family and Peter couldn’t be happier.


End file.
